Twenty-Four Past
by dance-in-storms
Summary: It's twenty-four past midnight when her quill breaks, and all she wants to do is cry. L/J oneshot.


**Hey everyone!**

**This is my first story on here; it's just a little idea I had while doing homework one night.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Twenty-Four Past

It's twenty-four past midnight when her quill breaks, and all she wants to do is cry.

She's tired – no, she's past tired, she's bloody_ exhausted_ – because damn Mondays last ten times as long as the next six days combined, and her teachers _always _try to make the start of the week as hellish as possible, and she stayed up this late last night too because she maybe procrastinated a little (a lot) over the weekend, and also she had rounds this evening and she had to dock points from about fifty different people for fifty _different_ offenses, and of course after all that she remembered this stupid Defense essay she had to write, and even if she can hex someone twenty ways to Thursday she still can't write three feet of _anything_ to save her life, and now her _fucking quill is broken._

She drops it on the desk (useless thing) where it rolls languidly to one side and catches itself before it falls.

The fire in the little lantern she's conjured up is more red than yellow now, and she untangles her wand from behind her ear to lighten the glow; the flame blushes brightly and she blinks confusedly for a second in the sudden glare before dimming it down again with a weary wave of her hand. The swaying shadows on her parchment make her dizzy, and she stares at them for several seconds, slumping her chin in her hand as her head falls sideways. She despairingly examines the foot of sloping lines she's managed so far, the letters becoming more and more haphazard as they reach towards the bottom of the page. The space below her final scrawled line – _the spell serves to hinder the opponent for a short amount of time so that one can make an escape, if necessary_ – is decidedly _not _filled with writing, and glares accusingly up at her. She scowls right back before realizing she's conducting – and losing – a staring contest with a piece of parchment.

"Merlin's sake," she mutters to the dark room, tracing her fingertip round and round the edge of her inkpot until it's all covered in black. She brings her finger up to her face, so close she goes cross-eyed, to study the ink which glistens in the wavering firelight. Then she yawns and her hand jolts and suddenly she's got an ink stain across her nose, which annoys her enough that she shoves the pot off the desk – it lands but not hard enough to break. When she leans over to see if anything's spilled, though, there's ink all over the carpet.

"Fuck." She reaches for her wand, but it's not behind her ear anymore _(damn, where did she put it)_ and she fumbles around aimlessly before finding it wedged into the crack in the couch where she's sitting, even though she doesn't exactly remember how it got there. She has to mumble the spell four times before it actually works because she's so damn _tired_, and after that's done she's all drained of energy and she just sits there, looking at the inkpot overturned on the floor.

"Lily?"

It takes her a full ten seconds to register her name, and another five to register his voice – "James?"

"Lily, what are you doing up?" He's in rumpled jeans that match his disheveled hair and his shirt's unbuttoned two down, and he's got his robe draped over his arm and his tie around his shoulders.

"I could ask you the same question."

In answer he holds up a sheaf of papers. "Prefect schedules."

"Bloody hell." She was supposed to do those, too. "Bloody hell, James, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot –"

"Lily, it's fine."

_No, it isn't._ "No James, it's my fault, I'm sorry, I should have remembered, but I had so much else that I had to do, and it just slipped my mind –"

"_Lily._"

"What?" She's gone and dropped her wand. She accordions at the waist to pick it up but struggles to right herself again, fingers fumbling on smooth wood, blowing hair out of her face. _Merlin, she's a mess._

Then he's there, picking it up and sliding it into her robes for her, where it should have been – the gesture is surprisingly gentle, like she's porcelain. "Lily, you're exhausted. You should get to bed."

"Can't." She's _trying_ to sit up straight, dammit. "I have to finish this essay."

"Essay?" He notices it all for the first time, that bloody sad excuse of an essay on the desk, the inkpot on the floor. He sighs. "Lily."

"I have to finish it."

"I'm sure Professor Aldaine won't mind –"

"I have to _finish it, _James, _damn it._"

"_No you don't, Lily."_

_ "Yes I do."_

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair and hesitates only imperceptibly before he sits down next to her, crossing his legs habitually and his arms petulantly. "Well then, I'm not leaving until you finish."

"_Potter."_

He smirks; she glares as well as she can with sleep swaying on her eyelids. "Fine, then." She turns back to the essay only to remember the broken quill and the inkpot on the floor. "_Damn it."_

As if he knows what she's thinking, he untucks a quill from his jeans pocket. She takes it almost angrily (but not quite) and rolls her eyes when he laughs. The couch groans as he leans back and shuffles the prefect schedules idly in his hands, while she picks up the inkpot from the floor to resume her work. After a couple minutes' silence, and only two more sentences' progress, she glances over to see him staring at her.

"What?"

"You have ink on your nose." He seems to find this funny – the corners of his mouth yank up into a smile, and his left cheek dimples.

She's so tired she's past caring. "Ugh."

"Aren't you going to clean it off? I thought girls hated having stuff on their faces."

"Not in the mood, James."

"Sorry, Lils."

"Don't call me Lils."

"You should be working, _Evans_."

She ignores it only because he's teasing her; lately it's been bothering her more and more when he calls her 'Evans' because she's realized she likes hearing him speak her name – Lily. _Lily._ She can never get it quite right, but he does, every time – and scrawls out another couple lines. Then she finds her head drooping as her body tries to steal a quick nap in between words and three instances later so does he.

"Lily, you're falling asleep literally as we speak."

"I am _not. _And we weren't speaking until just now._"_

He pays no mind to her retort. "Yes, you are." Reaching over, he lightly unlaces her fingers from her (his) quill. "I'm serious, you should get some rest. Let's go."

Her resistance is minimal at best: she only stops for a moment to shakily screw the lid back on her pot of ink and gather up her essay and shove both into her bag. But the minute she tries to stand, she collapses into James and he barely catches her, dropping the prefect schedules as he does so. She curses – "_bloody fuck_" – as the papers spill onto the floor, splaying in all directions, coasting on nonexistent breezes before drifting gently to the ground.

"Whoa there, Lils."

"Don't call me Lils." She mutters the words because her mouth isn't really moving anymore, it's just yawning. James pulls her up and she staggers limply.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, I made you drop everything…"

"I'll pick it up, stop apologizing."

"No, no, let me help you…" She tries to push away from James because frankly she feels a little uncomfortable standing there in his arms, and in the muddled mush of her mind it's registering that he's very warm and tall and he has a very nice chest, and the fact that she's even noticing James Potter's chest (or that she's even in a position to do so) is scaring her the slightest bit. However James is nothing if not contrary, and just pulls her closer.

"Lily, you're not helping me do _anything_. Sit down, I'll pick it all up." He hoists her back onto the sofa, and she tries to sit but sinks sideways the minute he lets her go. Then it feels so good that she just stays like that.

She keeps herself awake for as long as possible, watching James pick up the papers. He doesn't use his wand, which is sticking out of his waistband, but instead does it by hand, scraping the parchments all into a pile and tapping them every which way to even out the sides. She studies the way his hands move, and how his sleeves are nudged halfway up his forearms, and how the tie keeps shifting off his right shoulder and how he has to keep pulling it back up. His shoes are dirty and one of them is untied, and his hair is a royal mess, but for some reason she finds it a calming sight, the way he doesn't talk, just focuses silently, and the way he rubs the back of his neck and sits back on his heels when most of the work is done.

While he's pushing his glasses up his nose (they were falling down) and getting up to chase down a few stray pages, her eyes drift closed and she can't find the heart to open them again.

* * *

There's a pillow tucked under her head and a blanket draped over her body that she's pretty sure weren't there when she fell asleep, and she's on the big couch now. She squints herself awake against the soft glare of morning and stretches awkwardly – when her hand hits the desk, she blinks and sits up.

There's James' quill from last night, which she doesn't remember keeping, and her essay, which she doesn't recall being that long (also she doesn't write like that), and a note.

_Morning, Lils._

_ I figured you'd know the charm to change handwriting better than anyone, so I left that up to you, but I hope you had a good night's sleep. Don't miss breakfast_ – _it's the most important meal of the day._

_ -James_

She beams at the messy-as-his-hair penmanship on her note and her (well, now mostly his) essay, because really, who cares if he called her 'Lils' this time.


End file.
